


Tan Shoes With Pink Shoelaces

by Caledfwlch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caledfwlch/pseuds/Caledfwlch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You always knew your brother was different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tan Shoes With Pink Shoelaces

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, some of the timeline is screwed up in this. Too late.
> 
> First of all, a big thank you to my buddy The Onion Wanton for giving this a read-through! I do enjoy having my ego stroked so expertly.
> 
> Special thanks as well to somedaymydoctorwillcome for indulging me while I came up with this.

You are ten and full of unfired bullets, flipping through a magazine with the TV on for background noise, and Sam will not shut up about the goddamn Easy-Bake Oven.

“Please,” he’s begging. “I’ll buy it with my own allowance.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I said no. Stop asking questions,” you quote Dad. Truth be told, you like this. You like having this power over your little brother, a godlike superiority. Control.

Sam skulks with practiced expertise. You resist looking at his puppy-dog eyes, instead glancing at the rifle at the door, the cereal you spilled on the carpet this morning, the flickering cartoon woman on the screen. She’s shrieking at some unknown monster-- lips in a bright red O, muted blonde hair shooting up like she’s been electrocuted. You haven’t been to school in almost a month, getting babysitting duty while your dad gets to go and be a hero.

Sam doesn’t know. Sam just wants to bake cookies.

You sigh. Folding up the magazine and turning to your baby brother, you put your hands on your knees like you’ve seen older, stronger men do. “Look. Easy-Bake Ovens are for girls. And anyways, you have a bunch of toys already.”

“Four.”

“Five!”

“Not since the army man got stuck in the car!”

You roll your eyes.

You’ve given him gag gifts before: a doll, nail polish. Halloween princess card. He must have known you were joking, right?

Sam cocks his head, a glint in his almond-shaped eyes. At six, he’s already calculating, trying to find an angle to get what he wants. You glare at your shoes, knowing he knows you too well. That glint gives you the creepy-crawlies.

“I could bake you pies.”

“What if Dad found it? Come on, you know that wouldn’t go well.”

“We wouldn’t be so bored all the time.”

“We’re not bored.”

“Really?”

“Listen, okay? Dad’s gonna come back soon.”

His seems skeptical.

“Really. You know he has to work. When he gets back, we won’t be so bored, and we can go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

You struggle for words, not bearing the weight of telling him you don’t know everything. That there are weaknesses and blank spots in your head just like everyone else’s. “It’s a surprise,” you supply.

“Okay.” He caves, and for a brief instant, you feel victory. “Can I have an Easy-Bake Oven now?”

You groan. Flopping back onto your bed, you change the channel.

Tonight, you answer the same questions you’ve answered since you were seven. Sam’s soft, inquisitive whisper, his curious features lit by nothing but streetlights and the nakedness of his questions.

“When will Dad get back?”

“Soon.”

“Does Dad love us?”

“Yeah.”

“Was Mom pretty?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did she love us?”

“Of course she did.”

Then: “How long was her hair?”

“Super long. Past her shoulders. And golden.”

“Like a princess?”

“Yeah.”

You answer Sam’s questions until he drifts off to sleep, but you’re left staring at the ceiling. Eyes wide, you sit up in bed, watching the door with your fists clenched, grinding your teeth. A moth flutters at the small single window; you shiver.

You stare at Sam’s sleeping form, the gentle rise and fall of his little-boy body. The night sinks into your eyelids, your bones, whisperhushing that something is wrong.

You keep your eyes open and wait and wait for the lock to click, for the deep, pine scent of your father to trudge through the door.

He doesn’t come.

(x)

You are twelve years old and full of fire, drowning in the pain gnawing at your head. The surface of the sun burns before your eyes, searing when your eyelids tighten. You can’t even cry-- nothing but a rasping mess in sticky sheets.

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, you chant. Stupid, stupid.

You vaguely feel a small, velvet hand on your forehead. Your pounding brain computes at a snail’s pace. “Sam?” Your voice booms, cacophonous, and you moan.

The hand is replaced by a blessed, damp cool. A washcloth. Oasis.

You cough up bile.

You are drifting, a heat wave on cracking asphalt. Dimly, you hear a floating voice: “It’s okay. I cleaned you up.”

You rub your face, squeeze the corners of your eyes.

“I can be the mommy, and you can be my son.”

You blink grotesquely, and for a moment, you see it: a flash of blonde hair, an angel in white linen.

“Mom?” Your voice escapes you, too quiet, too unsure to belong to you.

“Uh-huh.” Sam nods. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

He isn’t as pretty as your mother. You let yourself forget.

 

 

“Dammit, boy.” The weight on your bed is solid, the hand on your shoulder wide and rough. Your heart sinks, too tired and tired and tall and nervous.

“Did you drink my beer?”

Sam: “Dad, it wasn’t--“

“How much did you drink?”

“Daddy.” You swallow, voice trembling and sore. “I feel sick-y.”

He’s gone, up. An absence. “We’ll talk later” is what he leaves behind.

Baby’s first hangover. Take a picture, make it last.

“It’s all right, Dean,” you hear. “It’s not your fault he’s angry.”

You shove, smashing your face into the motel’s cleaner-scented, jizz-stained pillow. “You’re not my mom, go away.”

“You’re being mean.”

“T-tough shit.”

“Do you want--"

“Go away, Sam.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

He’s gone, and you are all alone again.

(x)

You are thirteen, filled with gnashing teeth and reddened skin, shoulders like rocks while you grip your gun with sweating palms. Your eyes cut past your dad’s back, beside you, all around. Back to Sam, a skinny pale thing whose hands grip the handle of his silver shotgun with way too much expertise for a nine-year-old.

You put your finger to your lips: _shhh._ The only sound is your six feet pattering against the linoleum floor. You swear you can feel your heart screaming in your chest.

You round the corner. You breathe sharply when your foot slides on something slimy. Shivering, you look downward. You've stepped in a pile of slick, wet skin.

You swallow back a scream as you extract your foot. With a lurch, you notice that the cuff of your jeans is tinted a bloody maroon sheen.

You grit your teeth and check on Sam behind you. You expect him to make some sort of noise. He only stands, his body shivering in short bursts. You'd touch him, but-- wrong place, wrong time. The only support you can offer is an assured thrust of your shoulders and quick steps past the mess. Strength. He follows you around the pile. You almost laugh in your giddy nervousness. _Not a squeamish little girl, not me._

A flash of skin licks across the hall. Your grip on your gun tightens still. A sign from Dad, and the three of you move forward.

"Looking for me?"

You whirl around. In front of you stands a dark-haired man. His crisp suit ripples as he brings his fingers to his mouth. He licks off the remnants of-- you realize with a turn of your stomach-- blood.

"Do you like this meat suit? I do." He smiles. "It was an accountant."

You clutch Sam's shoulder, weapon cocked in the other hand. _Don't lose your weapon_ , you drill yourself. _Never lose your weapon._ Your father, behind you, turns his safety off with a click.

"You must be the Winchesters." The thing leers, not at you, but down at Sam. Your grip tightens. "Oh, I've heard so much about you, Sammy."

"Get away from my son."

"Ooh, tough guy. Compensating for something?"

"Get away from him or I kill you right now."

"All right, all right, I was only..." Dad steps forward, but abruptly, its skin starts melting. Your hands shudder. It peels itself apart, gobs of flesh plopping wetly onto the linoleum. Layers of muscles and tendons flop limply like wiggling snakeskin as it changes.

And suddenly, standing before you is a beautiful woman. She has long, gold ringlets and full lips, hips that tilt. Glittering green eyes blink between long lashes. You'd be attracted if you weren't biting your tongue to keep from vomiting.

Stepping out of its skin pile, she smiles coyly. "Nice trick," she coos, "huh, Sammy?"

Your brother is still as a dead man. He stares at the shifter blankly, his gun forgotten at his side.

"Kill it, Sammy," you hiss. "Shoot."

"Oh, little Sammy isn't going to kill me." The woman's lips curve nastily. "Will you, dear? Can't man up enough to--"

Crack! The shifter looks startled for an instant before crumpling to the floor. Its hair splays like sun rays. Dad killed it. Shot it from behind you.

He crouches down to check it and puts another bullet in its head for good measure. You feel a brief moment of relief, but he rounds now on Sam, who is still frozen under your hand.

"Why didn't you kill it?"

He doesn't answer.

"I said, why the hell didn't you kill it?"

He begins to shake violently. You remove your hand from his shoulder and hope for his sake he doesn't start crying.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you. If you don't have the balls to do it, you can stay home next hunt. You hear me?"

He licks his lips. "Yes, sir."

You both breathe a sigh when Dad turns away and motions you to follow. You stay close behind him. Sam trails farther away, fiddling with his gun. _Shhk, shhk._ Together, you file out of the bank, into the night.

In the car, Sam rests his head against the chilled window. His fingers trace a pattern on the leather seat. You can see the pale skin stretched over his neck-- a violet blossoming just below his collarbone, above his baggy shirt. Dad hasn't hit you since you turned thirteen. You guess Sam just needs to grow out of it.

"Shifters are tricky. Don't let it psyche you out."

He nods without meeting your eyes. You shut up for the rest of the ride.

You steal sips of beer from the hotel fridge. Your dad doesn't care to look. None of you sleep that night.

The next morning, Sam is quiet-- quieter than normal. He's quiet again the day after that. You start to accept that he's just quiet. You can count on your fingers the number of times you've heard him scream.

(x)

You are fifteen and full of searing titanium shards, knuckles white on the wheel. Surrounding you are years of sweat, fast food, leather. You know: it’s more than a car. This is your childhood, your honor, in your hands and under your trembling feet.

“Don’t spook,” Dad dictates from the shotgun. “You’ll crash her.”

You nod numbly.

“Foot on the pedal, hand on the wheel. Go on. She’s a car, not a damn go-cart.”

The parking lot stretches dry and empty before you, wavering under an aura of summer heat. Sam is left on the school steps. From here, he looks so far-- so small.

You push down and gingerly, amazingly, the car eases forward.

Thoughts of demons fade, taking with them new schools and tense shoulders and little brothers who don’t talk to you the same anymore. The Impala rumbles, deep and throaty. You lick your lips. You can smell-- just slightly-- the scent of your father’s aftershave wafting through the air.

Words come, gruff and miraculous: “Good job, Dean.”

You kind of almost smile.

Scuffing your feet against the asphalt as you walk over to him, you find Sam still waiting. He’s scratching a finger against the rough blacktop. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

He gazes up at you with startlingly serious eyes for his young, wide-set features. “He loves you more, doesn’t he?”

The blacktop and candor burns beneath your feet and sears straight through your shoes. “What?”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to deny it, or anything. You’re his favorite.”

You are silent.

He half-smiles and shakes his hair into his face. “I’m a crappy son. And it’s not like he wants...” he trails off, sighs. Eyes back up to you. “You know what I mean.”

You blink at his sneakers, dirty and worn but laces tied so, so neatly.

“You know what I mean, right Dean?”

Snap out of it. “Of course not. Dad doesn’t do favorites. Don’t be a dumbass, let’s go.”

You ride in the passenger seat, and Sam rides in back. You resist the urge to put your feet on the dash. (It’s not like you have a death wish.) _You know what I mean_ rings accusingly like a song stuck in your head.

You don’t know anything. It’s just Sam being weird.

Suddenly, the image of your brother in your mom’s white nightie flashes before your eyes. You sicken; the dress is too long for him, the neckline drooping grotesquely.

You put it away. Bury it deep. You bury deeper still the deceptive, slithering murmur saying _you don’t have a brother._

_You never did._

(x)

You’re sixteen and full of fizzling firecracker sticks, trying to look casual while you run your hands over plastic packets and cardboard boxes. Phrases like “EXTRA THIN!” and “CHERRY FLAVORED!” leap out at you, almost neon in their abrasiveness.

“I still don’t get why we’re doing this, Dean.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re light in the flip-flops, Sammy, now for the last time shut up.” You thumb a black package with “XL” printed on it. Do you need “XL?” _Are_ you “XL?” Exactly how freakin’ big is “XL,” anyway? Like, the size of Texas, or just Rhode Island?

“But you just met her,” Sam insists behind you, back from his brief detour in another aisle. “And it’s illegal. Do you even know how you’re going to do it?”

“With lots and lots of liquid courage, that’s how,” you mutter. You bite the bullet and grab a package of condoms to go.

At the register, the cashier tries to bribe Sam with peppermints and tells you you’re terribly skinny for that big hunting jacket. You lower your head, scratch your ear, and get the hell out before she can try to pinch your cheeks.

The night is dark and starless, a stark contrast from the glaring lights of the convenience store. You run your hands over the interior of the Impala and breathe in the heady smell. You’ve killed things, tortured demons. Hell, Dad trusted you enough to drive this car. You can bang a chick. No big deal.

“Stay in the car,” you dictate to Sam. “You’ve got the gun?”

He’s staring, slumped, out of the passenger window. “Yes.”

“And the salt?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

He glances at you from under his bangs.

“I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Sam puts his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. “She’s not an In-N-Out Burger, Dean.”

“Nope, In-N-Out Pussy,” you joke.

He doesn’t laugh.

“Look, man,” you say, nerves rising by the second. You just want to get it over with. Nameless, eyes closed. He’s holding you back. “One day, you’ll understand. I just... I gotta do this, okay? Sammy?” You hear the tension and uncertainty in your voice and hope he doesn’t notice. You check: he’s staring at the low, lint-coated ceiling. The night makes his round face blue and skeletal. You tell him, “you’re going to be a man one day.”

“I just don’t get it,” he repeats in that Sam way of his: low, soft, clear and contained as a glass figurine awaiting destruction.

Your jaw clenches, fist still on the wheel. You look away. “Of course you don’t, Sammy.”

“I’m not gay, Dean.”

“Right.”

“Seriously,” he annunciates. “I’m not.”

“Whatever.” You cast your eyes down to his pockets. “What’cha got in there?”

He stiffens. Wide eyes. This is good.

“Come on, you don’t think I know a shoplifter when I see one?”

“It’s nothing,” he rushes.

You smirk.

The two of you wrestle for all of half a minute before you get your prize: small and cylindrical, encased in crinkly blue plastic. “What the hell is this?” you pant, holding it up.

“I said, it’s _nothing_.”

You tear open the plastic with your teeth and lay the contents on your hand. It’s a tiny cotton mouse, limp and pale in your palm.

“Give it back,” your brother urges, grappling at your shoulder as you stare. You suddenly feel quite vulnerable. “Please, Dean.”

You muster one word: “What.”

Sam blinks rapidly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “They were made for plugging up bullet wounds.”

“Oh,” you say. “Right.”

“I was thinking-- it might be useful. We might need it.”

“Okay. Um, yeah. Nice thinking, Sammy.” Weirded out beyond belief, you hand the thing back to him, and he quickly pockets it like a precious stone. You stare at the road ahead of you: spots of streetlight copper over pitch.

You turn the key in the ignition, revving the Impala’s engine. The vibrations feel solid and good in your bones. You pull out and speed past her house, eyes fastened to the asphalt, shoulders back.

“Where are we going?”

“Diner,” you supply. “Guys’ night out, huh Sammy?”

“But what about Christina?”

“She’ll live without me for one night. Besides, I’d rather spend the night with my baby brother.”

Sam shakes his head, like _what can you do_. You’re already gone.

You spend the night munching cheeseburgers (you) and sipping strawberry shakes (Sam). You give him advice, for once not on guns or how to keep his hand steady while drawing a pentacle, but on how to hide an erection in a middle school locker room. What to use for lube in a pinch. How to keep a straight face while taking a shot.

In the parking lot, you pull his thin shoulders close for a brief second, an affectionate fraction. He’s been getting taller. You catch the scent of his hair, all light and sweat and hotel shampoo-- something like daisies underneath. Something like the smell of your mom’s pale shoulder, sleepy and sound and bedtime tea.

He smells like your little brother.

(x)

You’re seventeen and full of sharp metal spikes, stabbing in your chest. You’re running, fast. You open the bathroom door-- slam it. All doors locked. “Sam!” you yell hoarsely. “Sammy!”

You can’t panic. Can’t cry. Where is he?

You dig out your cell phone, rarely used, unfamiliar contacts. You frantically scroll through the list and punch in the number. You wait for the phone to ring. One... two... four rings before you hear his voice.

“Agent Willis. How may I help you?”

“Sam’s missing.”

“Dean?”

“Uncle Bobby, I... I can’t find him anywhere.” You wipe your eyes on the back of your sleeve.

“What on God’s green Earth have you been doing all day, watching grass grow? This ain’t a joke, son. Where’s your father?”

“No, please, Bobby, _please_ don’t call Dad.”

“It was your job to watch him, and you screwed it up. Now swallow your pride and tell me what he’s working.”

Your job to watch Sam. No matter you hadn’t slept. No matter your eyes were burning. It was your one job, your only job. “He’s going to kill me!”

“Okay, calm down. Where might he have gone?”

“I don’t-- I don’t know....” You squeeze your eyes shut and send a plea to God. Dammit, if he is real, let him find Sam, he can take you. Just give Sam back.

“Well you better think fast, because--“

“The library, maybe? I--“

A sharp knock on the door, and you freeze.

“Dean? What is it? Are you there?”

Knees weak, you run your hand over the outline of the gun in your pocket. You brace yourself and wrench open the door.

“Sam.”

He’s small and pale but _there_. Weak, but alive.

“I just found him. He’s at the door. He’s--“ 

That’s when you see the blood. “Bobby, I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“What the Hell--“

You hang up.

You usher Sam inside, sit him on the bed. It’s his leg. There’s so much red. “Sammy, where have you been?”

He covers his face with his arms, smearing the mud there.

“Never mind.” You unzip his pants, pull them down quick. Gunshot wound. “Shit,” you curse. “Wait here, Sam, I’ll be right back.” You rummage through your backpack, retrieve gauze and a pair of tweezers. Needle, floss. Cloth. At a thought, you grab the whiskey off Dad’s nightstand, too. 

You see them in your hands like you’re watching a movie. It’s not you, and it’s not Sam bleeding out on the bed. The real you is back at the house, four years old and lying in bed while your parents mumble-talk in the next room, drifting off to sleep.

You rush back over to Sam, who cries out when you push him back on the bed. You pull off your belt. “Bite down on this,” you say, shoving it in his mouth.

You stare at the hole in his skinny, white thigh, and your world reels. You right yourself and, standing over him, begin to dig the bullet out with the tweezers.

Sam’s high-pitched, stifled screams pierce the air as you remove the little metal piece of Hell. When you finally remove the belt from his mouth, he’s shaking so hard you’re afraid he’ll black out. You shove the opening of the whiskey in his mouth. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” You wait until Sam swallows a few gulps of the stuff before you start pouring it over the injury, cleaning it out with the cloth.

There’s so much blood; it’s under your nails and dying your knuckles like sticky gobs of paint. With resolve, you thread your needle and hand the bottle back to Sam. He sobs and sips while you stitch closed the wound, fervently hoping there won’t be an infection.

When it’s over, you crawl up on the bed with him and hold his head to your chest while he cries and cries.

“Where were you?”

His body heaves with exhaustion. He doesn’t answer.

Your anger flares. “I was looking all over for you. I called Bobby.... Where did you go?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, who shot you, then? I’ll get the son of a bitch-- rip its lungs out. Just give me a name.”

“Killed it,” he sighs, so quietly you have to lean in to hear it. “Already. It’s dead.”

“What was it?”

He gulps. “H-human.”

Your stomach evaporates. “Not a monster, you mean?”

He shakes his head. “He said... he said he couldn’t let me stay... not John’s kid, he said. No matter what I did. And he shot me, and I went to his kitchen and I stabbed him.”

“His _name_ , Sam, what was his _name_.”

“Newsom... I think. I don’t know, Dean, I don’t know.”

You rock him back and forth. You saw that name in Dad’s journal. A daughter lost to a Wendigo. “It’s okay.”

“I killed him,” he sobs. “I killed him, Dean, I killed him, I killed....”

“I know. I know.”

You don’t ask him why he ran away. Why he thought he could leave you behind to pace and gnaw your fingers. You just say, “don’t tell Dad.”

He nods weakly.

Dad gets back two days later. Hard eyes grill you as Sam keeps his lowered. You reply with a practiced _no sir, no problems_. Within the week, you’re on the road again, and Sam is barely limping.

(x)

 

You are eighteen and full of crumpled-up newspapers, clenching your teeth against the sharp pain in your leg and the biting wind. You tell yourself over and over that you should be used to it by now: the blood pounding in your skull, your flesh being sliced open like a fourth-of-July barbeque. That it shouldn't be hurting.

The whiskey burns; you smack your lips. Glaring so you don't wince, you limp into your motel room, slamming the door behind you.

October is the worst month. 

Sam sits. He is unsurprised-- doesn't look up at you.

"Did you kill it?" he asks.

"Right after it took a chunk out of me. Yeah," you say, "we killed it."

It was only a werewolf.

You slump against the wall, waiting for a congratulations, maybe even a question. Sam says nothing.

"Dad's getting more silver," you add. As if that's worth anything.

"Good."

You snort. "Thanks for the welcome party, Sammy. I only almost died." You stump over and plunk beside him on the bed-- _creak._ "What are you doing?"

He draws his shoulders in. "Math."

He always wants to _talk_ ; he can damn well talk to you now. "Doing math." You peer down at the textbook lying heavily on his lap. You take another swig. "Training for the Brainiacs Express?"

"You're not that funny, Dean." His voice is quiet, but sharp. Milk laced with vinegar.

You think about what he said yesterday, hissed scathingly in the back of “his” high school. Yeah, right. You’ll be gone in less than a month. He’d been stealing glances at a girl with freckles and a blue ponytail as she picked at her turquoise nail polish. _For once, let’s not screw this up, okay?_

 _What, the girl?_ you’d asked him, smirking.

_Everything. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to be the normal kids, for once?_

The whiskey is hot, but not as hot as the rushing desert in your ears. You flick a lock of his long hair, smirking. "You need a haircut, Samantha."

He quickly grabs at the nape of his neck like he's defending a pet. "Leave me alone."

_’Normal?’ Yeah, right._

"I was just out there saving your sorry ass, and you have the nerve to tell me to fuck off."

He runs his hand through his hair once, twice. "I'm doing Geometry."

"Good for you, little Einstein." Geometry? Is that normal for a freshman? You don't know. You don't want to. You're bleeding and sick and tired of his bullshit. "I'm cutting your hair tomorrow."

"No!" Sam scrambles from the bed, overlarge shirt flapping at his hips, eyes ricocheting.

"What, afraid of a knife?" You chuckle.

"No." He looks at the floor. "I'm not afraid."

"Then I'm cutting it." You lean back, kicking aside the papers in your way. You're determined to get his damn hair short again, whether he likes it or not.

Sam mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said--" he breathes noisily-- "you can't tell me what to do."

Then you're standing, shouting through tight teeth. Glass shatters; you hear, don't see. "-- ever, EVER tell me--"

You call him a sissy and a faggot, words bellowed from your mouth at a disconnect form your brain. (they're words you've heard before. They’re words you heard tonight; they were on the radio static, brown liquid leering, from your dad's mouth and all over, over your head.)

Over your head.

(It shouldn't be hurting by now.)

In the morning, you slice through your hangover with a kitchen knife, sawing at Sam's coarse brown hair in the dingy light of the motel bathroom. His hands lie folded on his jeans.

There's a lump in your throat, pushing up into your mouth. You want to tell him you're sorry. You want to tell him you love him, love him so much.

You toss a lock of hair in the trash and wish you didn't.

(x)

You're twenty-one and full of dead and dying seconds, stumbling back with a gun in your pocket, a knife in your boot, and a head drowned in oblivion. "I'm an adult!" you think, and laugh out loud. With your hand on the brass doorknob, you choke back the salty taste in your mouth and darkly think, _home sweet home._

Immediately, the shouting clarifies. You hear the loud and angry words, slowly raise your head.

Sam is in a skirt.

You lurch backwards against the door. Sam is in a skirt, and your father is shouting.

Where the hell did he get it? Where in the hell--

"Dean!" You flinch. "Get over here!"

But you're paralyzed, gawking at your brother in sneakers and yellow cotton. His dark, muscular legs look broken and out of place, his broad shoulders hunched.

You are so fucked.

He meets your eyes. His own are desperate and pleading. His terrifying vulnerability turns your nauseous stomach, poison you don't want to swallow. Repulsion rises thickly in your throat. Dad is shouting again. You look between the two of them: your father the whip-cracking ringmaster and your brother the circus freak.

Dad slaps him.

He slaps Sammy across the face.

You freeze, watching in almost slow motion and Sam shoves back with startling strength. His mouth opens wide and screams with a raw, carnal ferocity you never thought you'd see to erupt.

But he's kicked. Weak again, he crumples, and the volume in your head amplified, cracking on in harsh clarity.

You look at Sam on the floor. He's not crying; he's glaring at you.

You _want_ to run to him. To hold an icepack to his head. You want him to put some goddamn pants on so maybe he can be normal like he's always ranting about. You want to hug him fiercely until you get your little brother back.

But, as always, your eyes gravitate to your father. Sunken eyes, rugged jaw. Powerful palm red.

_He hit Sam._

You pull out your gun and shoot at the floor-- _bang, bang._ "Everyone shut up." Your voice is more contained than you feel. "Sam, go put on some pants. Dad--"

"You're gonna tell me what to do, son?"

You swallow. Shit.

"When you let him on his own? The hell have you done while I've been away?" He points at Sam, who's struggling up, brushing off his skirt so carefully it brings bile to your mouth again. "This is your fault, Dean."

The defiance in Sam's hair. The fire in his eyes. The foreign smoothness of his legs and blossoming crimson mark on his cheekbone. It's all your fault.

Your fault when Dad sits you down and towers over you while Sam sneaks into the next room and you hear the window click. You rub your eyes with your palms like a little kid and shake your head back and forth when he asks you if you’re a fag, too.

( _You don’t know, don’t know, don’t know._ )

You’re not a freak like Sam.

When Sam comes back three weeks later, he won’t look you in the eye. Sitting beside him on the twin-size bed, you mean to tell him _I’m sorry_ , but what comes out is, “Dad and I have been worried crazy about you.”

He blinks at the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing in his soft throat. When did he get so tall? “I know, Dean,” he sighs, smiling wearily. “I know.”

(x)

You’re twenty-two and full of nothing when your dad tells your brother to never come back, and he leaves you without a second glance.

It’s not a quiet absence. The empty space around you screams with each drink you pour, every blink. It doesn’t surprise you. You’ve never been less surprised in your life. It’s only natural, that he should leave and you should stay. You just wish it hadn’t happened so soon.

At least you know Sam is alive.

You’re sitting on his old bed at Bobby’s, running your fingers over the navy blue sheets, when you notice the cardboard sliver poking out form underneath the mattress. Frowning, you crouch by the bed and pick it out. It’s a composition notebook, worn and fading. On the cover, the S in “Sam” is backwards, like “Zam! I got you!”

You’ve never seen this notebook. Why did he leave it behind, if he wanted to hide it so bad? You wonder if it’s a diary. You half-expect it to be superhero drawings... half-expect princesses. Opening it up, you realize you were wrong.

The notebook is filled with pictures of you.

Sammy was never much of an artist. Even for-- what, a six-year-old?-- his crayon drawings were crude. Yet, they burst with color. Outlines of you, only distinguishable by your name scrawled underneath, are scribbled in with vibrant shades of purple and red. Your hair is drawn bright orange, your eyes a neon green.

In the back of the book, where the binding is torn, is a picture boldly titled “FAMILY.” The four people beaming below are not recognizable: a red-lipped woman with long Rapunzel hair, titled “mom”; a smiling, clean-shaven man with a hat, holding the mom’s hand, “dad”; a half-smiling boy with a baseball and little emerald buttons for eyes-- “Dean.” And in the center stands a little girl with long, brown hair, wearing a little pink skirt and smiling the biggest out of them all. That one is labeled, “sammy (me!)”

You cry.

It’s four years of snap-aim-shoot before you see your brother again, and you’re proud of him when he knocks you to the ground. You know you deserve it.

As he turns on the light and brushes himself off, confusion etched on his features when he says your name, all you can see is how long his hair has grown. The brown fringes tickle his cheekbones, wavy and delicate.

Though your world is falling apart and you’re an intruder in his little, perfect life, and you can tell by his eyes he hates you for it...

just a small part of you sighs in relief.


End file.
